


Tomorrow Never Dyes

by Blake C Stacey (BlakeStacey)



Series: The DMAD Discontinuum [7]
Category: Daria (Cartoon), James Bond (Craig movies), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol, Day At The Beach, I mean it's a beach episode, Mentions of Kinky Behavior, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlakeStacey/pseuds/Blake%20C%20Stacey
Summary: By the looks of it, Daria and Jane are having a well-deserved beach holiday, when they meet an unexpected couple.(A fragment of an oldDaria Makes A Dealdraft, which I've repurposed as an epilogue or companion piece of sorts and decided to post in case it entertains somebody.)
Relationships: James Bond/Q, Jane Lane/Daria Morgendorffer
Series: The DMAD Discontinuum [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/776577
Kudos: 2





	Tomorrow Never Dyes

The island was fantastic, just as Trent and Qiana had promised. Jane had opted to splurge on a cabin, a minute's walk from the beach, and just far enough from the next habitation that uncontrolled noises in the night, or the early morning, or just after teatime, would not go too remarked upon.

And now it was late afternoon, with three whole, delicious days before their flight back to the world, and Jane was snoozing under the skylight. Daria could have watched her for hours. At times during that summer, she had.

"Mmmdaria? Go out and have some fun. Catch a few ... rays ... before dinner ... brunch ... whatever."

_—Fine,_ thought Daria. _—But only because once you're rested and fed, you're going to tie me to the conveniently sturdy rafter that goes right through our little sitting room and lash me until I beg for mercy, a request which if I plan properly I won't be able to articulate. And then we'll trade off._

_—So rest up._

Daria decided to take the longer path to the restaurant and bar, along the curve of the beach instead of through the shrubbery. Her dark brown skirt was positively dowdy for beach clothes. Over her swimsuit top, she wore a T-shirt printed with the Pink Floyd "Back Catalogue" poster, a shirt that had once been Jane's, and before that Trent's.

It was too early for the dinner crowd, and most of the tables under their thatched umbrellas were empty.

Daria idly pondered the notion of ordering dinner to carry back. Jane would appreciate that. She wondered if the kitchens could do justice to a pizza. Surely honeymooners in paradise often had the urge for a good pie, no? The dinner buffet would be set out barside, soon. The past two nights, they had gorged themselves there. Daria could have stuffed herself nicely with the sopapillas alone. But tonight was feeling more like dinner in.

Looking over a laminated menu, Daria noticed that it was, by convention and custom, happy hour. _—Why not?_ She walked to the bar and slid into a stool where she could if she swiveled sideways face the ocean. The bartender was with her in a moment.

"Cucumber mojito, please." She paid and tipped in cash.

The drink was excellent, just as all the drinks had been.

She let her attention roam over the half-dozen-odd other patrons. Two men, sitting at a corner table where the floor gave way to sand, she recognized. The older, she had seen a few times strolling the beach, always clad in khakis rolled up to his knees and loose white cotton shirts open down his chest. She and Jane had watched a woman plainly hit on him at the bar the night before. The woman had met a conventional standard of beachside attractiveness, Daria gauged, in a detached way. They had watched her banter with the crew-cut blond man and then leave, clearly rejected but just as clearly bemused and on some level pleased.

His companion at the table this afternoon was younger, with darker, longer hair and rectangular black-framed spectacles to match. Quinn would have called him cute in that very brainy way—though boffin-y might work even better, Daria surmised.

The older, more weatherbeaten man gave the younger a brief squeeze of the hand as he rose. _—Ah. That explains that._

He came to the bar and leaned against it with both arms, about two paces to Daria's right.

"Another two martinis, señor?"

"Make one a Gibson."

"Of course. And the other?"

_—He's been making a habit of special orders, and he tips well for each one._

"Three measures of... Gordon's Export, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet and a slice of lemon peel. And, if you could, in a deep champagne goblet, instead of a martini glass?"

"Certainly, señor."

Daria watched as the bartender retrieved the components and built the drinks. The blond man also paid in cash and indeed tipped generously.

A cocktail in each hand, he turned to face her, and she knew that he knew that she had been watching.

"Pardon me. Might you be Daria Morgendorffer?"

_—Very English. Hair cropped to military precision tan continues evenly over arms and chest hands calloused irregularly. Faint scars over back of right hand and left shoulderblade._

He set down the glass in his right hand and offered the free hand to her. "Hillary Beech," he said.

"I'm sure," she replied, shaking his hand.

His companion at the table was watching them neutrally, one finger adjusting something to do with his spectacles, the other hand toying with a silver pen.

"I believe we have a mutual acquaintance," Hillary said.

"On the pale side, kind of Einsteinian hair, goes by the name of Daniel?"

Hillary smiled in slight surprise. "Now, out of all the people you might have guessed, the one with the pet raven—"

"Despite the label on that plainly-new bottle, Lillet hasn't made _Kina_ since long before the Beatles broke up," Daria said. "But if you can order a mythical ingredient, I guess it saves the trouble of substituting Cocchi Americano in your Vesper."

"You've a good eye," Hillary said, tilting his head slightly to invite her to their table.

"You grow up with my father, you learn your martinis."

"And you see when bits of the world don't fit."

_—Goddamn actual tension in the air, like the bass guitar part of the soundtrack is fading in._

She lifted her half-filled mojito glass and followed him to the corner table. The younger man rose and pulled out a chair for her.

"Thank you."

"Hey Dariaaaaaa!" Jane was sprinting towards them across the beach. She arrived with a puff of sand. "You promised me that if you trapped any strange men on this trip, we could share."

The younger man coughed on his Gibson and flushed in what Daria thought was a downright adorable way.

"And these two are among the strangest," Daria said.

Jane looked at her, then back at her two companions, and having like Daria changed her life in the Dreaming, saw them as Daria did.

"Oh my God, it's—and that means you're—" She canted her head. "And you're an _item_? Sweet Jesus, I'd always hoped!" She clambered over the patio railing, seized the fourth chair at their table, spun it about and straddled it. _—With those long, long damn perfect runner's legs._

"You two here on business?" Jane asked.

"Strictly pleasure," the younger man said. "Though business does have its way of following us, on occasion."

" _Trouble_ follows us," Hillary said, "and keeping it in line is our business. Beech, Hillary Beech."

"Lane," she said, grinning, Daria would have to call it, evilly. "Jane Lane." 

"This calls for additional drink," the bespectacled man said, rising. "Your poison?"

"Surprise me," Jane told him. Then, to Hillary, "You two have a history with Daniel?"

"What can I say," Hillary replied, smiling with one corner of his mouth. "The world's got problems, and people need to believe someone can solve them."

"Meaning," Daria said, "they need to believe that some of those problems are the kind which you two can solve."

"And some of them are," said Hillary, "and more of them will be."

The younger man returned with a pitcher of beer and two plastic mugs, one of them filled with lime chunks. He set them before Jane.

"A toast!" she exclaimed.

"Unexpected traveling companions," the younger man suggested, sliding into his chair and raising his glass.

"Trouble in paradise," Daria replied, raising hers.

* * *

Jane watched herself and the other three from the shoreline. Death was splashing about in the surf beside her, getting the calves and knees of her jeans wet, and generally owning at being a gothette overdressed for the beach.

"Is this," Jane asked, "my mad vision of how it could have turned out? Or is it really turning out this way instead because she opened the egg? Did we bring the world back different? Did I ... did I take her away from her girlfriend, or are we all one poly pile back in Boston?"

Death turned to her. "Is it really my place to say?" She pulled a pair of sunglasses from her collar, flicked them open and slid them on. " _La la LA la la,_ " she sang.


End file.
